Princess awoke to an unearthly banshee-like wail. It took her a full second to realise that the source of the wailing was her and shut her mouth. The sudden quiet that followed was broken only by the steady ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, inexorably drawing her gaze. Only an hour had passed but it had been quite long enough for another disturbing dream.
Princess closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and Mystic Mog stepped out of the cat basket onto the sheepskin rug before the fire. There was so much static in the air, she could feel the hairs along her spine and tail slowly sticking straight up into the air. It reminded her of the time she fell into a box of balloons as a kitten.
Mog padded into the kitchen and took a long lap of water from the porcelain cat bowl next to the AGA. She was already feeling a bit more composed and the hairs were beginning to settle back into place. It was time to try and recall what she had dreamt.
She closed her eyes and pictured the scene. She had found herself trapped inside a tortoise once again. It was dark but lit with streetlights and the faint coloured glow of High Street shops. Somewhere in town, perhaps? Focus. The memories started rushing back and the hairs on her back began to rise once more. She found herself tensing and her claws coming out, shocked at the raw power that had locked the tortoise inside its psionic shell and swept her along as some form of psychic collateral damage. The Princess inside her broke the spell before she gouged claw marks into the expensive polished marble floor. She had seen enough anyway and most certainly did not want to relive the explosion.
This was not the work of a natural psychic. Someone was playing with the Dark Arts and quite possibly meddling with something beyond their control. Fortunately, the light outside indicated that she might be able to do something about this one. It was time for Mog to go “Harry Potter” on the situation: it was time to send an owl.
Friday, 12 October 2012
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Chapter 11.6
Detective-Inspector Ifan Rhys-Morgan was still fuming as D.S. Jenkins returned with another forensics report. Who did that English twat think he was? Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown. Ponse was right. What kind of person includes their middle name when answering the phone? The same kind of person who has Montague as a middle name, apparently.
Ifan found it funny how he always felt like joining Plaid Cymru whenever he dealt with bigwigs from government agencies based in London. He knew that Wales had its fair share of arseholes but somehow felt that they did not seem to rise to the top quite so often.
He had pondered keeping the files locked in the database so that MI5 would not get direct access but had a last minute change of heart. They would be able to hack his system anyway and if things went wrong, he did not want the finger of blame pointing at him. No. The best solution would be to solve the case before his assistance was even requested.
“Wanker,” he muttered still staring at the phone.
“Sorry, Guv,” answered Jenkins, who was hovering in the door. He started to withdraw into the corridor.
“Not you, Tommie!” Rhys-Morgan sighed. “What have you got for me?”
“Fresh forensics, Guv,” Tommie told him, handing over one of the beige folders in his hand. “Apparently, that tortoise shell wasn’t just caught in the centre of the blast - it was the source of the blast. That’s what the lab boys think, anyway.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if anyone would know, it would be the lab boys. Are they sure?”
Tommie shrugged. “When are the lab boys certain about anything?”
“Good point,” conceded Rhys-Morgan. Everything was probabilities and likelihoods to those guys. He skimmed through several pages of numbers to the take-home message at the end.
“Eighty-nine point five percent probability,” he read aloud. “I’ll take that.” He waved Jenkins into a chair and recounted his phone conversation with Sir Henry a few minutes earlier.
“I don’t know, Tommie,” he said. “I just don’t buy that this was a ALF attack.”
“I agree, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan was slightly surprised by the conviction in his sergeant’s voice. “Explain.”
Tommie tossed a second folder across the desk to him. “WPC Roberts just finished her report after visiting the Fredricks house, Guv. It seems that Emma and Antonia Fredricks were animal rights nuts themselves. Called themselves RAVEN and protested against wearing fur, that kind of thing.” Tommie blushed slightly. “Actually, from what I can make out from to some of the photos, they protested against wearing most stuff.”
Rhys-Morgan sensed there was more. “Go on.”
“Er, well, Guv,” Tommie looked uncomfortable and stared at his feet. “Let’s just say that I think I have confirmed the identity of one of the dancers from the video of the explosion.”
Rhys-Morgan looked quizically at his friend, who responded by nodding wordlessly towards the folder that was now in the Detective Inspector’s hand. He opened the it and got an eye-full of the front cover of RAVEN’s “Skin not skins” charity Christmas calendar to raise funds for PETA, which had been banned from sale in the local WH Smiths but become quite an internet sensation. It had also meant that the girls had not had to buy a drink at the Ravenhill Rugby Football Club bar for two and half years.
“Oh,” he said closing the folder again. “I see. Given the cause, that was a little more fur than I was expecting.”
Ifan found it funny how he always felt like joining Plaid Cymru whenever he dealt with bigwigs from government agencies based in London. He knew that Wales had its fair share of arseholes but somehow felt that they did not seem to rise to the top quite so often.
He had pondered keeping the files locked in the database so that MI5 would not get direct access but had a last minute change of heart. They would be able to hack his system anyway and if things went wrong, he did not want the finger of blame pointing at him. No. The best solution would be to solve the case before his assistance was even requested.
“Wanker,” he muttered still staring at the phone.
“Sorry, Guv,” answered Jenkins, who was hovering in the door. He started to withdraw into the corridor.
“Not you, Tommie!” Rhys-Morgan sighed. “What have you got for me?”
“Fresh forensics, Guv,” Tommie told him, handing over one of the beige folders in his hand. “Apparently, that tortoise shell wasn’t just caught in the centre of the blast - it was the source of the blast. That’s what the lab boys think, anyway.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if anyone would know, it would be the lab boys. Are they sure?”
Tommie shrugged. “When are the lab boys certain about anything?”
“Good point,” conceded Rhys-Morgan. Everything was probabilities and likelihoods to those guys. He skimmed through several pages of numbers to the take-home message at the end.
“Eighty-nine point five percent probability,” he read aloud. “I’ll take that.” He waved Jenkins into a chair and recounted his phone conversation with Sir Henry a few minutes earlier.
“I don’t know, Tommie,” he said. “I just don’t buy that this was a ALF attack.”
“I agree, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan was slightly surprised by the conviction in his sergeant’s voice. “Explain.”
Tommie tossed a second folder across the desk to him. “WPC Roberts just finished her report after visiting the Fredricks house, Guv. It seems that Emma and Antonia Fredricks were animal rights nuts themselves. Called themselves RAVEN and protested against wearing fur, that kind of thing.” Tommie blushed slightly. “Actually, from what I can make out from to some of the photos, they protested against wearing most stuff.”
Rhys-Morgan sensed there was more. “Go on.”
“Er, well, Guv,” Tommie looked uncomfortable and stared at his feet. “Let’s just say that I think I have confirmed the identity of one of the dancers from the video of the explosion.”
Rhys-Morgan looked quizically at his friend, who responded by nodding wordlessly towards the folder that was now in the Detective Inspector’s hand. He opened the it and got an eye-full of the front cover of RAVEN’s “Skin not skins” charity Christmas calendar to raise funds for PETA, which had been banned from sale in the local WH Smiths but become quite an internet sensation. It had also meant that the girls had not had to buy a drink at the Ravenhill Rugby Football Club bar for two and half years.
“Oh,” he said closing the folder again. “I see. Given the cause, that was a little more fur than I was expecting.”
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
Chapter 11.5
"Bloody Chuck Wainbridge," Watson thought to himself as he re-tuned the radio, trying to find something half-decent to listen to. That man was such a show-boater.
"Ooh, look at me, I'm double-oh one!" he lampooned in a mock upper class English accent.
"I can shoot people in the head, whilst hanging upside-down by my feet after chasing them across roof-tops for half a mile."
Never mind the fact that if he was a bit better at the secret part of being a secret agent, he would not get involved in so many high speed chases or near-death gun fights. Alec Watson, on the other hand, had a soft Welsh accent, so was obviously only good enough to drive around upper-class pricks with silver spoons up their arses. Sometimes he felt that he only had a license to kill time.
Still, no point crying about it; fortunately for his superiors, Alec Watson took his job seriously and found that success was its own reward. Success and not getting shot at four times a week.
Giving up his quest for good tunes, Watson reached down below the radio and twisted a dial, tinting the car's windows from the outside until they were one-way mirrors. He then entered a secret code using the radio station select buttons and the centre panel of the dashboard slid silently up to reveal a sophisticated computer panel, with a slight excess of flashing lights.
Watson hinged the keyboard out and flicked a switch, converting the whole windscreen into a giant heads-up display. The satellite upload connected him quickly to HQ in London and he deftly typed in his twelve-character password using all ten digits. He smiled. To think that Wainbridge had petitioned for machine guns and rocket launchers in the space that housed the advanced information technology at Watson's fingertips. Fortunately, Control had seen the sense of letting Intelligence Officers apply their intelligence in the field. If they wanted uncontrolled use of automatic weapons, or large explosions, they could call the police's Armed Response Unit. Or even the army.
Watson wiggled his fingers whilst he decided what - or who - to run a search on first. He had begun a background check on Johnson earlier in the morning but that had been de-railed by the unwelcome news that Sir Henry wanted him to drive them both to Swansea again. It had not come up with anything, so he decided to turn his attention to Ricky the Janitor. (Even in his subconscious, Watson found himself deliberately trying to annoy Sir Henry by using the American job description.)
It did not take him long to find the first irregularity. There were no staff listed at BIRD-FLU named Ricky or Richard. He thought back to yesterday’s meeting and pictured the janitor’s ID badge: Ricky Edwards. His fingers danced. Edwards got a hit. The caretaker’s bearded face loomed large on the windscreen in front of him. Patrick Francis Edwards.
Watson frowned. Patrick Edwards. No wonder his previous search had failed.
He pulled up a scan of Patrick’s job application and driver’s license. That was when he found his second irregularity. Under criminal record, Watson could clearly see “YES” crossed out and replaced by “NO”. The official electronic entry clearly said “NO”, however: said “no” and listed the applicants name as “Ricky Edwards”. The name had clearly been replaced with his real name before the contract had been set up but the document used for background checks was clearly altered and misleading.
Did BIRD-FLU have some kind of criminal infiltration? Was there someone on the inside planning something? Had Professor Greenwood discovered this?
The furrows on Watson’s brow deepened as he scrolled down looking for the name that could blow the case wide open: the individual that had signed off on the doctored documents. There!
Professor Anthony Reginald Greenwood.
Watson sat back. Greenwood? Why would Greenwood want to infiltrate his own facility? He already had access at the highest level.
Feeling his lead slip away and his heart rate return to resting, Watson called up the police database and entered the name and National Insurance number of Edwards. He did indeed have a record but it was not exactly sinister: a mild drugs possession charge just over three years ago. Hardly a matter of national security but enough to stop him from getting a job at a high security NATO research lab.
Watson sat back in the driver’s seat and nodded as his brain made the connections. He flicked the driver’s license into centre view and focused on the address. Patrick Edwards was not just Professor Greenwood’s employee, he was his neighbour.
Suddenly it all made sense. Greenwood and Edwards were probably friends and Greenwood pulled a few strings - and turned some blind eyes - to get Edwards a job at BIRD-FLU. No wonder Ricky was looking uncomfortable yesterday: as well as being concerned for the Professor, he was probably worried about being found out and losing his job if people started digging.
All of which left Watson with something of a conundrum. If he mentioned this to Sir Henry then Edwards would certainly lose his job: Ponsenby-Brown would make sure of it. Sir Henry not approve of people breaking the rules. On the other hand, Bloody Chuck Wainbridge was on the case now and Watson would probably be reassigned in the morning. He should probably just leave it to 001.
As if on cue, Sir Henry emerged through the double doors of BIRD-FLU with Professor Johnson and Miss Mabel Middlebottom in tow. Alec pressed the cigarette lighter and the display on the windscreen winked out as the computer gadgetry slid silently back into place. Had he been looking at the screen at that moment he would have spotted a blinking red “entry updated” box flash up just before the system powered down. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.
"Ooh, look at me, I'm double-oh one!" he lampooned in a mock upper class English accent.
"I can shoot people in the head, whilst hanging upside-down by my feet after chasing them across roof-tops for half a mile."
Never mind the fact that if he was a bit better at the secret part of being a secret agent, he would not get involved in so many high speed chases or near-death gun fights. Alec Watson, on the other hand, had a soft Welsh accent, so was obviously only good enough to drive around upper-class pricks with silver spoons up their arses. Sometimes he felt that he only had a license to kill time.
Still, no point crying about it; fortunately for his superiors, Alec Watson took his job seriously and found that success was its own reward. Success and not getting shot at four times a week.
Giving up his quest for good tunes, Watson reached down below the radio and twisted a dial, tinting the car's windows from the outside until they were one-way mirrors. He then entered a secret code using the radio station select buttons and the centre panel of the dashboard slid silently up to reveal a sophisticated computer panel, with a slight excess of flashing lights.
Watson hinged the keyboard out and flicked a switch, converting the whole windscreen into a giant heads-up display. The satellite upload connected him quickly to HQ in London and he deftly typed in his twelve-character password using all ten digits. He smiled. To think that Wainbridge had petitioned for machine guns and rocket launchers in the space that housed the advanced information technology at Watson's fingertips. Fortunately, Control had seen the sense of letting Intelligence Officers apply their intelligence in the field. If they wanted uncontrolled use of automatic weapons, or large explosions, they could call the police's Armed Response Unit. Or even the army.
Watson wiggled his fingers whilst he decided what - or who - to run a search on first. He had begun a background check on Johnson earlier in the morning but that had been de-railed by the unwelcome news that Sir Henry wanted him to drive them both to Swansea again. It had not come up with anything, so he decided to turn his attention to Ricky the Janitor. (Even in his subconscious, Watson found himself deliberately trying to annoy Sir Henry by using the American job description.)
It did not take him long to find the first irregularity. There were no staff listed at BIRD-FLU named Ricky or Richard. He thought back to yesterday’s meeting and pictured the janitor’s ID badge: Ricky Edwards. His fingers danced. Edwards got a hit. The caretaker’s bearded face loomed large on the windscreen in front of him. Patrick Francis Edwards.
Watson frowned. Patrick Edwards. No wonder his previous search had failed.
He pulled up a scan of Patrick’s job application and driver’s license. That was when he found his second irregularity. Under criminal record, Watson could clearly see “YES” crossed out and replaced by “NO”. The official electronic entry clearly said “NO”, however: said “no” and listed the applicants name as “Ricky Edwards”. The name had clearly been replaced with his real name before the contract had been set up but the document used for background checks was clearly altered and misleading.
Did BIRD-FLU have some kind of criminal infiltration? Was there someone on the inside planning something? Had Professor Greenwood discovered this?
The furrows on Watson’s brow deepened as he scrolled down looking for the name that could blow the case wide open: the individual that had signed off on the doctored documents. There!
Professor Anthony Reginald Greenwood.
Watson sat back. Greenwood? Why would Greenwood want to infiltrate his own facility? He already had access at the highest level.
Feeling his lead slip away and his heart rate return to resting, Watson called up the police database and entered the name and National Insurance number of Edwards. He did indeed have a record but it was not exactly sinister: a mild drugs possession charge just over three years ago. Hardly a matter of national security but enough to stop him from getting a job at a high security NATO research lab.
Watson sat back in the driver’s seat and nodded as his brain made the connections. He flicked the driver’s license into centre view and focused on the address. Patrick Edwards was not just Professor Greenwood’s employee, he was his neighbour.
Suddenly it all made sense. Greenwood and Edwards were probably friends and Greenwood pulled a few strings - and turned some blind eyes - to get Edwards a job at BIRD-FLU. No wonder Ricky was looking uncomfortable yesterday: as well as being concerned for the Professor, he was probably worried about being found out and losing his job if people started digging.
All of which left Watson with something of a conundrum. If he mentioned this to Sir Henry then Edwards would certainly lose his job: Ponsenby-Brown would make sure of it. Sir Henry not approve of people breaking the rules. On the other hand, Bloody Chuck Wainbridge was on the case now and Watson would probably be reassigned in the morning. He should probably just leave it to 001.
As if on cue, Sir Henry emerged through the double doors of BIRD-FLU with Professor Johnson and Miss Mabel Middlebottom in tow. Alec pressed the cigarette lighter and the display on the windscreen winked out as the computer gadgetry slid silently back into place. Had he been looking at the screen at that moment he would have spotted a blinking red “entry updated” box flash up just before the system powered down. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Chapter 11.4
Princess lazily opened one eye and considered the view through the conservatory windows. The weather appeared to have cleared up nicely and the position of the shadows in the garden told her it was roughly noon. A successful morning, she thought, well-spent curled up asleep on the floral rocking chair next to the patio doors, which always caught the early sun. She now found herself in partial shade, however. It was time to take action and find a new location for her afternoon nap.
With the measured pace that comes with intention of spending most of the day asleep, Princess opened her other eye, followed by her mouth. The yawn that came after took a few seconds to build before culminating in a gape so wide that a casual observer might think that her head was about to flip open. There were no causal observers, however. Princess could feel that she was alone in the house and it felt good.
After a quick lick of the end of her tail, which was experiencing a brief tingle, Princess stretched her front paws out, flexed her claws, and then relaxed them again and stood up in the chair. Her body shook slightly with a second round of stretching before she jumped nimbly down on to the floor, causing the bell on her red diamond-encrusted collar to give a brief tinkle.
Subconsciously, she lifted a back leg and had a bit of a scratch at her collar. It always felt a bit tight when she first woke up. She yawned again. This morning was the first uninterrupted sleep she had had for a while. She was still not feeling quite her old, rested self but she was well on the way.
She padded into the living room and stepped daintily into the fur-lined cat basket by the fire. The fire was not lit but there was still a general ambience of coziness about the whole setup. She contemplated her sleeping configuration for a moment, conducting slow spin to scope out the most comfy fold of the silk blankets that adorned the bed, before nestling in and curling up with her head resting on her back paws and her tail across her face to block out more light.
On another day, she would have noticed that her tail was starting to tingle again and got a sense of foreboding. On this day, however, she was already fast asleep.
With the measured pace that comes with intention of spending most of the day asleep, Princess opened her other eye, followed by her mouth. The yawn that came after took a few seconds to build before culminating in a gape so wide that a casual observer might think that her head was about to flip open. There were no causal observers, however. Princess could feel that she was alone in the house and it felt good.
After a quick lick of the end of her tail, which was experiencing a brief tingle, Princess stretched her front paws out, flexed her claws, and then relaxed them again and stood up in the chair. Her body shook slightly with a second round of stretching before she jumped nimbly down on to the floor, causing the bell on her red diamond-encrusted collar to give a brief tinkle.
Subconsciously, she lifted a back leg and had a bit of a scratch at her collar. It always felt a bit tight when she first woke up. She yawned again. This morning was the first uninterrupted sleep she had had for a while. She was still not feeling quite her old, rested self but she was well on the way.
She padded into the living room and stepped daintily into the fur-lined cat basket by the fire. The fire was not lit but there was still a general ambience of coziness about the whole setup. She contemplated her sleeping configuration for a moment, conducting slow spin to scope out the most comfy fold of the silk blankets that adorned the bed, before nestling in and curling up with her head resting on her back paws and her tail across her face to block out more light.
On another day, she would have noticed that her tail was starting to tingle again and got a sense of foreboding. On this day, however, she was already fast asleep.
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Chapter 11.3
“What do you know?” Sir Henry asked.
“Not as much as I would like,” conceded Rhys-Morgan on the other end of the line. “Our current working hypothesis is a murder-suicide. Or murder. Or suicide. Some combination of murder and/or suicide, anyway. Unless it was an accident.”
“Not much then, Inspector.”
Sir Henry heard what sounded like a palm hitting a forehead on the other end of the phone.
“No,” came the muttered response. “Though we’re fairly sure that your man wasn’t the target. A number of the victims were related to each other and one Peter Lloyd, who is currently missing, presumed dead or fled. I think the Professor was just collateral damage.”
“What about the ALF?” asked Sir Henry.
Rhys-Morgan paused. “Excuse me?”
“The Animal Liberation Front.” Sir Henry’s tone dropped a few degrees. It was not quite icy yet but had certainly reached frosty. “You do know about the threats made by the Animal Liberation Front against BIRD-FLU?”
There was another pause. Rhys-Morgan was too tired for this.
“BIRD-FLU?” he asked. “An animal rights organisation has been threatening a disease? I’m a little confused, Sir Henry.”
“More that an little, I would say, Inspector,” answered Sir Henry. “And more than confused,” he thought to himself. If this was the lead of the investigation, it did not bode well.
“The ALF have not threatened the disease, Inspector,” he explained, as if to a child. “They have threatened BIRD-FLU: The Brecon Institute for R&D - Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. The very research centre that was headed up by the late Professor Greywood.”
“Greenwood,” Rhys-Morgan corrected subconsciously, whilst he mind was processing the new information.
“Don’t be ridic...”
“I don’t think this was an ALF attack,” interrupted Rhys-Morgan.
Sir Henry did not approve of being interrupted but it happened so rarely that he did not really know how to react. He opted for pretending that it did not happen. “Explain.”
“One of the, er, victims was a tortoise,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “Right in the centre in the blast, too. That doesn’t strike me as the M.O. of an animal rights group. What’s more, they were a bunch of hippies. Druids. Tree huggers and the like. Not really your usual animal rights target.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry in a tone that suggested he did anything but. “And you prefer, this Peter Lloyd chap?”
“Well, he owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop.”
“A pet shop.”
“Yes, Sir Henry.”
“And the relevance of this is...?”
“Well, it might explain the tortoise?” replied Rhys-Morgan, a creeping sense of doubt transmuting what started life as a statement into a question.
Sir Henry was not convinced. “I am not convinced. You pursue your pet theory, Inspector. I am going to get our best man to follow up the ALF angle. I will let you know if you can be of assistance.”
It was Rhys-Morgan’s turn to be stunned.
“I’m sorry. If I can be of assistance?” he asked. “In my homicide investigation? With all due respect, Sir Henry, I’m not losing control of this one.”
“Really? It sounds like you already have. My people will be in touch to get the names of the rest of the victims.”
Sir Henry ended the call before Rhys-Morgan could muster a response and turned to the shell-shocked Johnson.
“It’s as I feared,” he confirmed. “I’m afraid Greywood’s dead. I’ve decided to bring in our best man, double-oh-one. Do you have a secure phone line in this facility?”
Professor Johnson nodded. “Yes, Sir Henry. It’s, er, in the Director’s office.”
“Wait in the car, Smithers,” Sir Henry told Watson, handing him the phone. “This won’t take long.”
“Not as much as I would like,” conceded Rhys-Morgan on the other end of the line. “Our current working hypothesis is a murder-suicide. Or murder. Or suicide. Some combination of murder and/or suicide, anyway. Unless it was an accident.”
“Not much then, Inspector.”
Sir Henry heard what sounded like a palm hitting a forehead on the other end of the phone.
“No,” came the muttered response. “Though we’re fairly sure that your man wasn’t the target. A number of the victims were related to each other and one Peter Lloyd, who is currently missing, presumed dead or fled. I think the Professor was just collateral damage.”
“What about the ALF?” asked Sir Henry.
Rhys-Morgan paused. “Excuse me?”
“The Animal Liberation Front.” Sir Henry’s tone dropped a few degrees. It was not quite icy yet but had certainly reached frosty. “You do know about the threats made by the Animal Liberation Front against BIRD-FLU?”
There was another pause. Rhys-Morgan was too tired for this.
“BIRD-FLU?” he asked. “An animal rights organisation has been threatening a disease? I’m a little confused, Sir Henry.”
“More that an little, I would say, Inspector,” answered Sir Henry. “And more than confused,” he thought to himself. If this was the lead of the investigation, it did not bode well.
“The ALF have not threatened the disease, Inspector,” he explained, as if to a child. “They have threatened BIRD-FLU: The Brecon Institute for R&D - Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. The very research centre that was headed up by the late Professor Greywood.”
“Greenwood,” Rhys-Morgan corrected subconsciously, whilst he mind was processing the new information.
“Don’t be ridic...”
“I don’t think this was an ALF attack,” interrupted Rhys-Morgan.
Sir Henry did not approve of being interrupted but it happened so rarely that he did not really know how to react. He opted for pretending that it did not happen. “Explain.”
“One of the, er, victims was a tortoise,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “Right in the centre in the blast, too. That doesn’t strike me as the M.O. of an animal rights group. What’s more, they were a bunch of hippies. Druids. Tree huggers and the like. Not really your usual animal rights target.”
“I see,” said Sir Henry in a tone that suggested he did anything but. “And you prefer, this Peter Lloyd chap?”
“Well, he owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop.”
“A pet shop.”
“Yes, Sir Henry.”
“And the relevance of this is...?”
“Well, it might explain the tortoise?” replied Rhys-Morgan, a creeping sense of doubt transmuting what started life as a statement into a question.
Sir Henry was not convinced. “I am not convinced. You pursue your pet theory, Inspector. I am going to get our best man to follow up the ALF angle. I will let you know if you can be of assistance.”
It was Rhys-Morgan’s turn to be stunned.
“I’m sorry. If I can be of assistance?” he asked. “In my homicide investigation? With all due respect, Sir Henry, I’m not losing control of this one.”
“Really? It sounds like you already have. My people will be in touch to get the names of the rest of the victims.”
Sir Henry ended the call before Rhys-Morgan could muster a response and turned to the shell-shocked Johnson.
“It’s as I feared,” he confirmed. “I’m afraid Greywood’s dead. I’ve decided to bring in our best man, double-oh-one. Do you have a secure phone line in this facility?”
Professor Johnson nodded. “Yes, Sir Henry. It’s, er, in the Director’s office.”
“Wait in the car, Smithers,” Sir Henry told Watson, handing him the phone. “This won’t take long.”
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Chapter 11.2
“OK,” Butch agreed reluctantly in response to Cassidy’s goading. “Let’s do this thing.”
The thing turned out to be both dull and tabby-cat-free. The main farmhouse was quiet and deserted. Without a warrant, they could not force their way in and, in contradiction of all the rules for crime dramas, no one had left any of the doors or windows unlocked. The dogs could not find any recent traces of Garth Jones, nor goats or tortoises for that matter. Tommo was getting visibly bored.
After an hour, Kippie decided to pull the plug on the operation. Cassidy had eventually found some signs of life in the form of vehicle and animal tracks near a wooden hut on the outskirts of the property but the recent rain had washed away the detail and it was not clear what kind of vehicle or what kind of animal.
They could have been goat tracks but they could equally have been deer tracks as far as Kippie knew. The manor house a couple of miles north of the Jones farm kept some deer and they regularly escaped.
(The escaping deer always caused mayhem on the local roads. This was not because they caused more accidents, as such. At least, not unless you can accidentally phone up Griff “The Reaver” Evans and his armoured pickup and cause him to accidentally drive around the area until a hapless beast was spotted and then accidentally mow it down at high speed allowing the original caller, who just so happened to be tailing Griff at the time, to claim the carcass in the well-established “if it’s road-kill, it’s not poaching as long as you don’t hit it” myth. Technically, the carcass actually belonged to the local council (or whoever’s land the poor creature was on at the time - Griff had been know go off-road sometimes in his quest for the perfect accident -) but these thing never made it to court. Entirely coincidentally, the local magistrate and Griff “The Reaver” Evans never seemed to be short of a venison sausage or the odd haunch.)
Likewise, the vehicle tracks were not of obvious of interest. Kippie considered taking a mould but decided that (1) the definition was too poor following the rain, (2) there was nothing unusual about keeping a vehicle in a shed on a farm, and (3) she really could not be bothered. Judging by the width and depth, the it was probably a van or four-wheel drive vehicle of some kind and it had been in and out of the hut several times. She made a note to look up Garth’s vehicle collection when they got back to the station.
“Come on,” she sighed. “Let’s make tracks.”
Butch’s ears perked up. “Wouldn’t that be fabricating evidence?”
Kippie looked at him. If she did not know better, she would have interpreted that look as eager willingness rather than shocked reproach. She did not know better: Butch did not just throw the rule-book out of the window when it came to bringing down a suspect, he strapped a brick to it and aimed at the suspect’s head.
“I don’t mean...” she tapered off and pointed at the police van. “Just get in.”
The thing turned out to be both dull and tabby-cat-free. The main farmhouse was quiet and deserted. Without a warrant, they could not force their way in and, in contradiction of all the rules for crime dramas, no one had left any of the doors or windows unlocked. The dogs could not find any recent traces of Garth Jones, nor goats or tortoises for that matter. Tommo was getting visibly bored.
After an hour, Kippie decided to pull the plug on the operation. Cassidy had eventually found some signs of life in the form of vehicle and animal tracks near a wooden hut on the outskirts of the property but the recent rain had washed away the detail and it was not clear what kind of vehicle or what kind of animal.
They could have been goat tracks but they could equally have been deer tracks as far as Kippie knew. The manor house a couple of miles north of the Jones farm kept some deer and they regularly escaped.
(The escaping deer always caused mayhem on the local roads. This was not because they caused more accidents, as such. At least, not unless you can accidentally phone up Griff “The Reaver” Evans and his armoured pickup and cause him to accidentally drive around the area until a hapless beast was spotted and then accidentally mow it down at high speed allowing the original caller, who just so happened to be tailing Griff at the time, to claim the carcass in the well-established “if it’s road-kill, it’s not poaching as long as you don’t hit it” myth. Technically, the carcass actually belonged to the local council (or whoever’s land the poor creature was on at the time - Griff had been know go off-road sometimes in his quest for the perfect accident -) but these thing never made it to court. Entirely coincidentally, the local magistrate and Griff “The Reaver” Evans never seemed to be short of a venison sausage or the odd haunch.)
Likewise, the vehicle tracks were not of obvious of interest. Kippie considered taking a mould but decided that (1) the definition was too poor following the rain, (2) there was nothing unusual about keeping a vehicle in a shed on a farm, and (3) she really could not be bothered. Judging by the width and depth, the it was probably a van or four-wheel drive vehicle of some kind and it had been in and out of the hut several times. She made a note to look up Garth’s vehicle collection when they got back to the station.
“Come on,” she sighed. “Let’s make tracks.”
Butch’s ears perked up. “Wouldn’t that be fabricating evidence?”
Kippie looked at him. If she did not know better, she would have interpreted that look as eager willingness rather than shocked reproach. She did not know better: Butch did not just throw the rule-book out of the window when it came to bringing down a suspect, he strapped a brick to it and aimed at the suspect’s head.
“I don’t mean...” she tapered off and pointed at the police van. “Just get in.”
Monday, 1 October 2012
Chapter 11.1
A fully-trousered Professor Johnny D. Johnson III waited nervously with Miss Mabel Middlebottom at the entrance to BIRD-FLU as the grey Bentley of Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown pulled up to park outside for the second time in as many days.
Sir Henry had called the previous evening to inform them that NATO were closing the centre until the business with Professor Greenwood was cleared up. With the exception of the mice, the animals were all on their way back to Bristol zoo, which had kindly agreed to put them up at short notice. The other staff had also been sent home. It was just left for Professor Johnson to oversee the lock-up and transfer of the security responsibilities from the usual base staff to some NATO guards. With guns.
Johnson gulped. Although he considered himself as American as Apple Pie (i.e. with European ancestry), guns made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. (He preferred the tridents of the Retiarii or the gladii of the Secutores, although he could appreciate that a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was considerably more practical.)
He instinctively straightened as Alec Watson opened the rear door to the saloon and Sir Henry emerged. The bureaucrat surveyed the scene and gave a small nod of satisfaction at the sight of the NATO guards, who were already in place. A few strides then took him to the double doors to BIRD-FLU. This time, they were open and ready. Two guards flanked the entrance and gave crisp salutes, which Sir Henry acknowledged with another small nod.
“Sir Henry,” greeted Johnson, extending a slightly sweaty hand for a shake.
The hand was ignored as Sir Henry passed his gaze over the reception area. “I trust all the arrangements are in place, Professor?”
Johnson gulped again. His throat was suddenly very dry. He knew that he had done nothing wrong but still somehow felt like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster. “Sure are, Sir Henry.”
“The animals?”
“All gone bar the mice,” confirmed Johnson. “We are making arrangements in case they need to go too. Some of them are GM and so the licenses for moving around are more complicated.”
“But in hand,” he added as he saw Sir Henry’s frown.
“And the staff?”
“Sent home. Myself and Mildred are the only ones here now,” Johnson told him. “We’ll be leaving as soon as you are satisfied. The guards have been briefed to let in no one except myself and the animal house technician - he’ll need to come in once a day to look after the mice.”
“Good.”
Johnson found his stare drawn to the machine guns. “Umm, Sir Henry, are all the guns really necessary? I mean we don’t even know even something has happened to the director.”
Sir Henry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Alec Watson hurrying up with a mobile phone in his hand. The scowl that was beginning to form for the American academic was instead directed at full force at his Cambrian chauffeur.
“You are going to want to take this call, Sir Henry,” Watson insisted.
He took the proffered phone. “Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown.” Pause. “You are quite sure?” Another pause. “Excuse me a moment.”
Sir Henry lowered the phone for a moment and turned back to Johnson. “Regrettably, Professor, it would appear that you are quite wrong.”
Sir Henry had called the previous evening to inform them that NATO were closing the centre until the business with Professor Greenwood was cleared up. With the exception of the mice, the animals were all on their way back to Bristol zoo, which had kindly agreed to put them up at short notice. The other staff had also been sent home. It was just left for Professor Johnson to oversee the lock-up and transfer of the security responsibilities from the usual base staff to some NATO guards. With guns.
Johnson gulped. Although he considered himself as American as Apple Pie (i.e. with European ancestry), guns made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. (He preferred the tridents of the Retiarii or the gladii of the Secutores, although he could appreciate that a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was considerably more practical.)
He instinctively straightened as Alec Watson opened the rear door to the saloon and Sir Henry emerged. The bureaucrat surveyed the scene and gave a small nod of satisfaction at the sight of the NATO guards, who were already in place. A few strides then took him to the double doors to BIRD-FLU. This time, they were open and ready. Two guards flanked the entrance and gave crisp salutes, which Sir Henry acknowledged with another small nod.
“Sir Henry,” greeted Johnson, extending a slightly sweaty hand for a shake.
The hand was ignored as Sir Henry passed his gaze over the reception area. “I trust all the arrangements are in place, Professor?”
Johnson gulped again. His throat was suddenly very dry. He knew that he had done nothing wrong but still somehow felt like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster. “Sure are, Sir Henry.”
“The animals?”
“All gone bar the mice,” confirmed Johnson. “We are making arrangements in case they need to go too. Some of them are GM and so the licenses for moving around are more complicated.”
“But in hand,” he added as he saw Sir Henry’s frown.
“And the staff?”
“Sent home. Myself and Mildred are the only ones here now,” Johnson told him. “We’ll be leaving as soon as you are satisfied. The guards have been briefed to let in no one except myself and the animal house technician - he’ll need to come in once a day to look after the mice.”
“Good.”
Johnson found his stare drawn to the machine guns. “Umm, Sir Henry, are all the guns really necessary? I mean we don’t even know even something has happened to the director.”
Sir Henry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Alec Watson hurrying up with a mobile phone in his hand. The scowl that was beginning to form for the American academic was instead directed at full force at his Cambrian chauffeur.
“You are going to want to take this call, Sir Henry,” Watson insisted.
He took the proffered phone. “Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown.” Pause. “You are quite sure?” Another pause. “Excuse me a moment.”
Sir Henry lowered the phone for a moment and turned back to Johnson. “Regrettably, Professor, it would appear that you are quite wrong.”
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